Shot
by Aaydona
Summary: Mostly romantic drabbles written for the Livejournal community Tammy Drabbles. Both het and slash pairings.
1. Let It Show

**Title:** Let It Show  
**Rating:** PG**  
Theme:** Prompt 37 – Who am I  
**Pairing:** Alex/Roger  
**Word Count:** 362  
**Blah:** I got the sudden urge to write some Roger during class and got my pencil out. Then it turned into Alex/Roger before I knew it.  
**Disclaimer: **All characters belong to Tamora Pierce. I just borrowed them for twisted entertainment during class.

He paid a price for his magic, oh yes he did, and he continues to pay for it still.

He wakes up, his eyes streaming from pain and terror, only to find that he is lying in his bed. It is too empty with just his body alone, marble against the cool blossoms of tangled sheets. Like a stiff corpse.

Alex observes this at from the open doorway. His arms are folded and resolute as he walks toward his knight-master, quick, solemn.

The older man's voice is hoarse from screaming when he asks, "Who am I?"

Alex does not know what to say except, "Roger of Conte."

This seems to reassure, comfort the frightened man a little. He is beautiful even when he is cowering in fear from secret nightmares and deprived of his usual charm and dash the way his gaze is bottomless and haunted. "I cannot remember."

Alex tries to calm himself and presses his scarred palms to his sides. His fists are clenched until slim crescents cut into his flesh. He faces the empty wall.

Roger forgets, for now, who he is, who he was, that Alex is his squire. The kisses they shared with the straw tangled in their loose hair, on the floor of an abandoned stable. Alex, however, remembers. _After the kisses, Roger had told him_, "This has never happened. It is only a fluke, nothing more." _Then, his dark hair damp from sweat, his face undeniably hard and beautiful, and smirking, the duke of Conte had risen from the ground in silence. And left the stable with a sharp turn of his heel… _Out of sight_…_

If Alex feels pleased by his lord's temporary loss of memory, he does not let it show on his features. Instead, he turns to Roger. He feels, caresses the lonely space between them on the bed at first. Then he climbs onto the bed and gently pulls Roger under, into the nest of covers. "I'll help you remember." Alex's lips are curved in a vague sort of amusement when they reach his.

If Roger feels the recognition rise within him, he does not let it show on his features.


	2. Ocean Blue

**Title:** Ocean Blue  
**Theme:** Prompt 35 - War  
**Characters:** Evin, Miri  
**Rating:** PG-13 to be safe.  
**Word Count:** 704  
**Blah:** My first Tamora Pierce and present tense drabble. Beware of my grammar of DOOM.

Miri stares out at him, the shadows of her face shifting into horror, fear until she ducks out of the tent and he can see her no longer. He rises from a nest of woolen blankets in too much of a hurry and the shocking cold of wet sand bites his bare feet. The woman who isn't Miri tugs at his clenched fists desirously and looks at him. Her eyes are startlingly green, like a pair of thin paper lanterns illuminated, even from behind a mass of soft dark hair. He should stay, he thinks to himself. Stay for what he can take instead of leaving for what he cannot.

But he did not, for all he sees in her face, almost beautiful like porcelain, is an expression that Miri would never wear. It isn't her. _Not her_, the waves sing, from outside the tent, as they crash gently into shore. _Not her_, _not her_. He finds that his fingers are too stiff to work the laces when he struggles into his shirt. His shirt is white, as starkly white and harsh as Miri's face beneath the shadows.

"I'm—SORRY!" he shouts into the sea, at the dark figure slipping into the blue.

She stops as he dashes into the ocean in pursuit and shudders at the crush of icy seawater and something entirely separate. "What's there to be sorry for?" Her voice is quiet and calm, like the waves that will not yield.

"Look, it's just because I—Ugh, she's not anyone I—It's just that—Damn, I'm an idiot," he stumbles through his syllables.

With too much venom, she replies, "Damn straight." Remembering cursing is for people with a lack of good vocabulary, she pauses for a reconsideration of her words. "I agree. You _are_ an idiot of the first class."

"Hey, I only said I'm an idiot, not of the first class." They sigh at the same time, wistfully and painfully, but both give no acknowledgement of noticing it. "It's not fair. You said we shouldn't be a couple, you initiated it by kissing that bastard _Farant_." How he despises Farant, with that sleazy attitude and penchant for walking around shirtless, at that moment. He sloshes in the water to lessen the distance between them, not caring that the sensation of water spilling into his unlaced shirt feels like the caress of a blade.

A faint scowl at the mention of Farant unfurls on her pale face then vanishes as she gives him a wince. "Then you were with what's-her-name. On _my_ bunk because the two of you were too lazy to climb up to her bunk. I had to clean my sheets."

"You retaliated by kissing that bastard _Farant_ on my bunk," he says shortly, calming.

She looks away from him, as if afraid of what his intense gaze, sometimes light and sometimes impossibly dark like the ocean she loves, might do to her. "Fair is fair," she says, trying to reassure herself. "Life should be fair. War should be fair…" Then, hesitantly, she adds, "Love should be fair."

"But it's not." He reaches out with uncertain fingers, across the ocean that separates them. He thinks that he will be able to touch her if he just stretches a little further and if she reaches out too. He wants to. The words are in his throat like a song that wants to escape from his pursed lips, but he wonders if words can tell her how he feels, the tangle of guilt and love and ache that he is right now. He launches into explanation, using words that fell out him like precious lifeblood. He tells her he loves her. He loves her so much he would rather be at war with her than not see her at all.

And at the end, he feels like a child again, exposed and vulnerable like he is pure of all deception and hate.

"Well," she says, almost shyly, after seeing that he is finished. Softly, like a waking dream, her fingers brush his. Knowing Miri, he realizes that is as forward as she will go.

_For now_, anyways, he thinks with a smile that baffles her. He lifts her face to his.


	3. Dear Lass

**Title:** Dear Lass  
**Rating:** G**  
Theme:** Prompt 42 – Firsts  
**Characters:** George  
**Blah:** I've always loved letter writing. First love letter.  
**Disclaimer: **All characters belong to Tamora Pierce.

_Dear lass,_

_I hadn't ever written like this before. You ain't goin' to read this anyhow, so I suppose I'll skip all those flowery words 'bout your lips and your kisses and your eyes holding the radiance of the sun. It's not that these're untruths, but I'm certain someone else'd be singin' more eloquent praises to you without me. It's just that… even when you're scowlin' so it makes me wanna smile and flush. Even when you're vexed with me I'm just glad you're there so I can see your scowling face._

_The old legends say that knights are brave and ladies are beautiful, but you can be both…_

_You _are_ both—brave and beautiful_

_You're _the _sweet lass_, _you're _the _Lady Knight._

_And all I want is for you to be my dear lass. But you ain't ever gonna read this anyhow._

_Love…  
__George Cooper_


End file.
